


On Firestarters

by MueraRashaye



Series: Friends Across Borders [2]
Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Firestarting, Gen, Non-explicit character death, References to mercy killing, References to witch-burning, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MueraRashaye/pseuds/MueraRashaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Theory: Herald Anur wanted to find out just what his one-night friend meant by claiming the title Firestarter, so he went to the local expert for some answers.</p><p>The Practice: Sunpriest Dinesh had more to worry about than contemplating the one-night meeting with a Herald, what with Ancar's raids, losing his unit's trust, and all the blasted screaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Theory

Anur had enjoyed catching up with his capitol friends on his brief run to Haven, invited to his yearmate Dirk’s wedding. It had been seven months since Ancar had declared war, and he could use the break from the constant battling and frantic preparations along the border.

He could also hunt down the resident expert on Karse and hopefully pry some answers from the weaponsmaster in exchange for intelligence and a chance to beat him back into shape.

The fierce and fearsome Weaponsmaster Alberich didn’t bother to look over when he entered, probably getting an alert from Kantor. He kept his focus on the guardsmen sparring under his watchful eye. Anur sat down and watched, equally critical as he’d been posted with seasoned border-guards for long enough to know a lot more about weapons work than when he’d started, even after the Weaponsmaster’s tutelage.

“Anur Bellamy,” the man’s rough voice brought him out of his musings and he stood, smiling slightly, “Still favor your right hand, do you?”

“Ah, yes, I’ve gotten better though! Just injured the left in a skirmish a few weeks ago, haven’t gotten it back into shape yet,” Anur admitted, somewhat shamefaced. And he had just finished thinking about how much better he’d gotten since his Trainee days!

“Questions, Kantor says you have. Come, over drinks we can discuss it,” the Weaponsmaster said, nodding briefly to the departing guards before leading him into the quarters attached to the salle.

Anur was feeling like he’d been here before – the grammatical structure, the drinks – just without the risk of being set on fire. Well, that made a large difference, he admitted, fingering the intricately made sun motif he carried in his pocket. He had taken to wearing it around his neck down south, but for the wedding he had decided to pocket it, not wanting to answer questions that might arise. He wanted some answers first.

Sitting in front of the empty fireplace, he accepted the glass of amber alcohol with murmured thanks, taking an appreciative sip while the Weaponsmaster settled into his own chair. “What brings you?” he asked finally.

Anur opened his mouth and the entire story spilled out: he hadn’t told anyone about his truly bizarre encounter, both because everyone was too busy worrying with the war and because he didn’t know what to make of it himself, and didn’t want to hear everyone else’s opinion before he had developed his own. Aelius didn’t push, probably appreciating the chance to mull the encounter over himself.

Halfway through describing the terms of their truce, he found himself pacing, sun motif in hand as he ran his fingers along its knots in what had quickly become a nervous habit. The Weaponsmaster didn’t interrupt him, for which he was grateful, merely sipping his water and listening as he waved his way through an explanation.

He finally wound down with the tale, hesitating before returning to his seat and clasping his hands together in front of him as he watched the Weaponsmaster. Herald Alberich eyed him thoughtfully before saying, “May I?” and pointing at the pendant he still held.

Anur hesitated only briefly before handing it over, the man sliding his chair back a hair to get it in the light of his beautiful stained glass window. It was only now that Anur recognized the similarities in the motif style, blinking as he made the connection. It made sense – he had never considered if the Weaponsmaster was still a follower of Vkandis, but there was no reason for him to _not_ be.

Well, minus the whole witch-burning but he had obviously gotten over that and it wasn’t like _everyone_ who followed the religion could be like that.

“Good craftsmanship, this is,” Alberich said, handing it back to him and Anur pocketed it quickly. “Seaman, this priest was?”

“Well, sailor family – Karse has a rather large lake further in, right?”

“Ruby, and rivers from there carry much trade into the farm-lands,” Alberich nodded, “Sailor is a rare trade in Karse though. Now, his robes, he was wearing?”

“Not the formal ones, the field ones,” Anur agreed, “Rather alarming, to hear Aelius screaming he was a sunpriest and then have a fire start up.”

“Recall coloring, details, do you? Was there black trim to the robes?”

Anur furrowed his brow, digging through memories of drunken storytelling to try and recall just what the edge of the robes had looked like in dim, flickering light. “I… think so. It was snowing out, so the darkness might have been melt, but it seemed a bit too regular for that.”

“Then you are fortunate indeed,” Alberich sighed, sitting back in his chair, pouring himself some alcohol now and taking a sip, “Your Kir Dinesh is a Firestarter.”

“He called himself that,” Anur admitted, hesitating, “But – ah, I thought all sunpriests could burn witches?”

“In theory, yes, in practice it is wandering red-robes who do so. Few local priests would be willing to set members of their own flock on fire, and those that do seldom last long in their towns,” Alberich explained, “Of these wandering red-robes, there are those who are only on their route for examinations and routine inspections, and there are those whose explicit duty is to hunt out heresy and witchcraft to set them alight. That is the duty of a firestarter. They have black-trimmed red robes, as they are seen as falling between a red-robe and a black-robe in status and responsibility.”

“He seemed to imply he’d been assigned to the Sunsguard for some time though,” Anur recalled, brow furrowing as he remembered those adrenalin-filled introductions. “Introduced himself as a chaplain of the guard.”

“And of chaplains, there are also two types,” Alberich smiled wryly, “Those who are there to gain heads for their promotion and those who are there to die in convenient coincidences. Your Dinesh is probably in the second, as he did not immediately set you on fire and actually deigned to set foot in a Hardornen stable.”

“He sounded…” Anur hesitated, not sure why this was bothering him so much and why exactly he was unloading all of this onto the weaponsmaster, but something in that craggy face urged him to continue, “He sounded lonely, sir.”

“Full Herald are you, brother. No sirs I will accept,” Alberich said, accent stronger for a moment. He considered Anur’s words, before responding, “And I imagine he would. A Sunpriest is friend to few, in Karse. Respected by all, sometimes even loved, but friend? Other Sunpriests, only, who would dare call a member of the Priesthood a friend as if they were equals. A _firestarter?_ ” Alberich shrugged now, continuing, “They are feared more than the black-robes. It is in their title, what they do. At least summoner black-robes can pretend they are just a priest. A firestarter has no recourse. Their robes, their name, set them apart from the rest of the priesthood. Small, vicious order, it is.”

“Kir didn’t seem very vicious,” Anur said defensively, surprised he felt so protective of a Sunpriest he had met only once.

“Rare, he is,” Alberich replied. “Very rare. Very fortunate, you are, to have met him.”

“Yeah,” Anur said thoughtfully, fingering the sun-pendant again, “Yeah. I am.”


	2. The Practice

Kir looked up from where he was tending the wounded, checking the flow of battle. He had started working with the corpsman in major raids soon after he was stationed here, and now that Hardornen regulars were assaulting them in addition to bandit squads, he only got more practice in medicine. Especially with reinforcements few and far between, their fifty-man unit only receiving replacements for those who had died or been sent back, too wounded to remain. After all, they were not actually at _war_ with Hardorn.

How he _loathed_ politics.

Grabbing his long-knife from beside him, he slammed it into the gut of a Hardornen who stumbled too close, shoving the man off the blade into a heap with disgust. The corpsman shook his head over the man they were tending, saying, “We must move him back.”

Kir examined their surroundings. The way back was quickly growing obstructed as the fighting spread out from its initial grounds, but they should be able to make it.

“Very well,” he said, “You carry or shall I?”

“I will,” the corpsman said, lifting the man carefully and beginning the steady jog back, Kir keeping a weather eye out as he followed. He only just caught the blur of a crossbow bolt out of the corner of his eye, crying an alarm and shoving the corpsman to the ground, the wounded man groaning in pain at the jolt.

The bolt flew overhead, and the corpsman swore, “Crossbows!” he grumbled, “Damn them we won’t make it with getting shot at.”

Kir got to his feet and snarled. This was _frustrating_. Bandits were one thing, he knew how he was to deal with them: he wasn’t. The guard dealt with it and only called him in if they needed rites read or a fire started. But these attacks needed every hand they could get, even if no one would trust him to watch their back he could at least help with the wounded and the cremation pyres at the end.

He was _sick_ and _tired_ of all the blasted _screaming_!

He spotted the crossbow bearing soldier further back, protected by some of his comrades with halberds, and he grinned, not noticing the corpsman quail back in face of that smile. He raised his long-knife, pointing the blade at his target and _focusing_. That vibration of life, present in everyone, indicating a beating heart, flowing blood – if he just _poked_ at it, gave it a little nudge then he wouldn’t have to hear the screams.

“ _Burn_ ,” he said lowly, target barely having a moment to widen his eyes before he was consumed by a pillar of white-hot flames, roaring up to the heavens. Grinning, he let his knife fall and he raised his hands, allowing his focus to be entirely on the flames he’d brought. Not letting them vanish for lack of fuel, he split his fingers and with a practiced twist sent the pillar twisting down, sweeping the field in an angrily devouring spiral, leaving twisted metal and ash in its wake, screams swallowed in the consuming roar of flame.

He halted the flame when it reached an area where Karsite regulars were mixed in with the Hardornen troops, ears dull to the cries of alarm and shouted orders in mixed tongues as he slammed his hands down, flames flattening into nothing immediately. He scowled out at the ashes and the now total route, before picking up his blade and sheathing it, turning to the pale-faced corpsman, still on the ground.

He mutely bent over and lifted the semi-conscious wounded man, walking back towards the safe region with full confidence that no one would be trying to shoot him in the back. The remaining Hardornens were otherwise occupied.

He tried not to think about what this might do to his constant balancing act with the men.

Sergeant Greich approached him after the battle was done. Kir was performing his usual duty and setting pyres of their enemies corpses alight. There were fewer than usual as he had gotten much of the burning out of the way during the fight itself.

The small crew assigned to help him this time were all pale-faced and flinching when he made sudden gestures or set a pyre to crackling with a flick of his fingers and sharp glance. He had always made a point to use the longer chants and gestures common to ritual Firestarters, including tributes to Vkandis, a few recitations of verse, and at least one elaborate arm-wave. He did not see the point any longer, not after his dramatic revelation of ability earlier that day. He was tired of the game, nothing had happened to make it worth the effort he put in beyond his continued survival, and even that was in question if he kept this gulf between his practicing abilities and his actual ones now that they were in an undeclared war.

“Your Holiness,” the Sergeant said, Kir looking over at him from where he had been watching the pyre being built for the next batch of Hardornen’s, the officers that had escaped his initial fire, stripped of valuables and letters no matter how banal.

“Yes, Sergeant?” he said mildly, inwardly sighing at the return to full formality. He had gotten the Sergeant to call him Father Dinesh for the past year and a half, but that seems to have been lost.

“I was under the impression you needed to invoke Vkandis and wave some hands around to Firestart,” he said gruffly, the unstated question clear in his crossed arms and wary gaze.

Kir snapped his head around and gave him a hard look, the Sergeant unable to refrain from flinching away, though it was slight with him, and Kir said bluntly, “I was hoping to avoid people flinching from my every gesture and sharp look. People realizing you can set them alight with a glare seems to cut down on the number of them willing to actually speak with you, and I, as a weakness, like talking to people.”

He turned away from the Sergeant and waved the squad back. They scrambled over themselves to get away from the built pyre and he muttered, “Burn,” flames crackling merrily over the flesh of the deceased moments later.

The Sergeant departed, and after one more pyre their duties to the Hardornen corpses had been completed. The four-man cremation crew gathered the valuables they had recovered and fairly fled from his presence. He repressed a sigh and made his way to the infirmary, knowing his next duty would depend on the numbers there.

He spotted a battle-tithe pyre, indicated by the Karsite bodies lying near it, and he almost did sigh this time, making his way through camp and the few meters past to the pyre’s position. He made a point of memorizing the faces of those faithful he sent on to Vkandis, at least as much as he was able. The numbers were growing large enough he was starting to lose track except in his dreams.

The muted whimpers he heard as he approached brought him up short. He stared at the group of six, two already dead of injuries, but the other four were still taking shuddering, doomed breaths. Face white and feeling a burning _anger_ that they would even _think_ this of him, he whirled around and roared, “Why have these men not been granted mercy?!”

People scattered, and he snarled at the lack of response. He knew very well, they thought he would set _living Faithful_ on fire, as he had not, _ever_ , just because of his actions on the battlefield. How _dare_ they. Turning on his heel, he walked over to one of the wounded and crouched down next to the man, Sunlord, he was barely more than a boy, now dying of a gut wound.

Pain-bright eyes stared up at him and cracked lips whispered, “Your Holiness?”

“Easy lad. You’re getting mercy,” he informed him gently. “Is there anyone - ?”

“Second squad, Devek. He’ll do it,” the boy bit back a whimper and Kir touched his face gently, that burning in him spreading to consume Ancar as well. He had seen too many of these children set alight because of that father-murdering demon-spawn.

“The Sunlord will welcome you,” he assured him softly. “And you can watch us all burn Ancar to ash from Sunheart.”

That won him a small smile, Kir looking over at the squad’s tents and relieved to note that there were a few making their way towards him, hopefully those who were to give these sufferers mercy.

“Rest easy lad,” he murmured, standing and moving to the next, lung collapsed and second one badly punctured, judging by the struggling breaths. He murmured assurances to that one too, grateful eyes all he could use to judge if he’d helped, the man, older than the last and actually able to grow a beard, no longer able to speak.

He managed to get to the last two before the mercy-givers arrived, murmured exchanges of words with their comrades ended with sharp knives. Kir set the two already dead on the pyre in the meantime, memorizing their faces and deaths so he could pray for them tonight. Turning to the now dead four, he was helped in the corpse stacking by those who’d given mercy, before they stepped back to join the ranks who had formed to witness the tithe and burial.

“Vkandis Sunlord,” he said formally, standing half-way between the first rank and the pyre, “We ask that you accept these soldiers of faith into Sunheart, where they might rest easy, knowing that their comrades fight on.”

He included no thanks for victory, or the typical request that Vkandis take the sacrifices as a tithe. He had always hated that, in both respects. There was no victory until there was a truce, and even then it could be broken. And human lives were not tokens to be counted by some _tax collector_. He had never included those parts, always using some variation of the one he had said, but judging by the surprised inhales he heard from a few of the people standing behind him, at least some of them had never noticed. They were probably too used to simply blocking out the words of the priests who lit the fires, a fair number of them were transfers or new. Only the Sergeant, Scout-Master and a cook remembered when he had first arrived. The rest were either retired or dead.

He felt so old, just creeping up on thirty and looking an early twenty, but he felt forty. And a _tired_ forty at that.

He ignored it and walked over to the infirmary again, deciding he could at least offer his services to the corpsman again. The wounded would be too pained or exhausted to flinch away.

He missed a conversation between the Captain, only stationed with them a year, and Sergeant Greich. “He was angry that they weren’t given mercy,” the Captain, a just-past-thirty man named Ulrich, said, obviously surprised as he watched the burning pyre.

“His Holiness Dinesh insisted on giving mercy before the tithe, always has,” Greich replied solidly. “He wasn’t angry, Captain. He was _insulted_.”

“And he needs none of the rituals, he can just – burn?” the black haired man sighed at Greich’s nod, running his hand through sweat-soaked hair tiredly. “I suppose I owe him an apology.”

“Wait until you can meet his eyes without blanching,” Greich snorted and the Captain smiled wryly, “And I suppose the fearless Sergeant Greich never wavers?” he said.

“Oh I flinched,” the sergeant admitted, to his captain’s surprise, “And I need to apologize for _that_.”

“So we should not be worried?” Ulrich asked, needing the last confirmation, as he looked over at the rows of wounded, black-lined red-robes clearly visible amongst those giving treatment.

“No. We are lucky to have him.”

“Yes,” Ulrich said slowly, watching as the priest calmly soothed a wounded youngster into sitting still for his stitches. “Yes, I think we are.”


End file.
